


Befroggled

by Naughty_Yorick



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, Fairy Tale Elements, Fluff, Frogs, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:20:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28368279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: If Geralt was going to attempt to break the suspected spell with a kiss, did that mean - and this was an idea Jaskier struggled to even think, let alone speak out loud - did that mean Geralt loved him? Did that mean Geralt wasinlove with him?After time to ruminate on finding Geralt about to kiss a frog that he thinks is his bard bespelled, Jaskier realises what the fairy tales say about frogs and kisses and - most importantly - true love. But he can’t justaskGeralt if he’s in love with him. So he invites him to a masquerade ball instead. All he can do is hope that Geralt understands why he'd dress as a frog, of all things.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 38
Kudos: 268





	Befroggled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inber](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/gifts).



> This is a gift for inber (HELLO) and a sequel to her fic, in which Geralt finds a frog and assumes Jaskier has been transformed. Jaskier, much to his amusement, encounters Geralt just before he's about to try and break the spell with a kiss. You can read it [here!](https://inber.tumblr.com/post/629726810448510976/an-i-am-a-bit-sick-today-that-is-the-only)

Jaskier held the high, green velvet boot in his hands, his tongue sticking from the side of his mouth as he delicately tugged the brilliant golden ribbon through the eyelets, careful not to stretch or tear the fabric. 

On the other side of the room, Priscilla was meticulously pinning enormous feathers to a short cape draped over a slightly moth-eaten mannequin, arranging them by size. They flashed iridescent in the warm candlelight. 

“Priscilla?” 

She turned to him, her mouth full of pins. “Hrm?” 

“Got a weird one for you.” 

She rolled her eyes, put the feathers she was holding back onto the table beside her and spat the pins into her hand. 

“If you’re leading with that, I assume I’m not allowed to ask _why_ you’re about to ask me whatever it is you’re about to ask?” 

“Nope.” 

“Fine. What?” 

“Y’know frogs?” 

“I am aware of frogs, yes.” 

“Right, so, in fairy tales, if someone gets turned into a frog, how do you turn them back? I need your first answer,” he added quickly, “don’t think about it.” 

Pris frowned. “A kiss, I suppose. That’s the first thing that comes to mind.” 

“Right,” Jaskier pulled the lace from the boot, coiling it around his fingers. “Thought so.” 

“So, wh—” 

“You promised you wouldn’t ask!” 

“Fine, fine.” She picked up a feather and twirled it between her fingers, watching it spin. “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with, you know,” she gestured with the feather to the box that sat next to Jaskier on the bed, “your costume?” 

Jaskier gasped in faux-indignation. “I have _no_ idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Sure,” Pris turned back to the mannequin with a little shake of her head. “Whatever you say.” 

She was about to grab the grab the feathers once more when she stopped, turned, paused, and then - 

“Did he say yes, by the way? To the invite?” 

Jaskier looked up at her, the boot gripped in his hand. “Yeah,” he said, peering at her through narrowed eyes. “Why?” 

Pris shrugged. 

“No reason.” 

And she shoved the pins back between her lips. 

~ 

Frogs. Frogs, frogs, frogs. Jaskier had, upon his return to the Academy a few weeks ago, sequestered himself away in the library with a stack of ancient fairytales and gotten to reading. He was familiar with all of the stories, of course, in the way that everyone was: beautiful princesses, cursed princes, terrifying witches and feats of love and devotion. 

It had been six months since he’d caught Geralt with that little green-gold treefrog. It had been five months, two weeks, and three days since they’d gotten outrageously smashed after a particularly successful contract and Geralt had confessed why, exactly, he’d been clinging to the little thing so tightly. 

At the time, Jaskier had nearly pissed himself laughing, and Geralt - after a brief grump - had joined in, for once. 

It wasn’t until late the next day, still nursing the hangover to end all hangovers while Geralt was off hunting for their supper, that he realised the rest of the story - the part that Geralt hadn’t told him. 

There was only one way to turn a human back into a frog. At least, there was only one way in the tales. 

You had to kiss it. 

Geralt had returned with a brace of rabbits in one hand and some wild mushrooms in the other and Jaskier, suddenly feeling very hot and agitated, had becoming a stuttering mess for the rest of the evening before retiring early, feigning sleep on his bedroll on the hard ground long after Geralt had drifted off. 

He didn’t mention it. He occasionally mentioned the frog - teasing Geralt to ignore the strange gnawing in his chest - making it into a joke. “I can’t believe you thought I was a _frog_ , Geralt,” he would say, but leave the rest unsaid - _I can’t believe you were going to kiss me_. 

Well, not _him_. He was going to kiss the frog. 

And that, absurd as it was, made him feel worse: The only time Geralt would ever kiss him, would ever _consider_ kissing him, is if he’d been turned into a frog. 

Of fucking course. 

The whole mess led to the second, much more pressing issue. If Geralt was going to attempt to break the suspected spell with a kiss, did that mean - and this was an idea Jaskier struggled to even _think_ , let alone speak out loud - did that mean he loved him? Did that mean he was _in_ love with him? 

Or was it just that _any_ kiss could break a spell? 

Jaskier didn’t know. The books in the library certainly didn’t know, and it wasn’t something he could ask any of his friends, aside from sneakily questioning what people believed the cure for befrogglement was. 

The invitation to the Belleteyn Masquerade Ball was, he knew, an act of desperation. But after so long, the thought of just _walking up to Geralt_ and _looking him in the eye_ and asking him, _actually_ asking him if he _had_ been about to kiss that damn frog, and if so, _why_ — 

It was unbearable. 

And now Jaskier was sat, on the edge of Priscilla’s bed, meticulously threading ribbons into a pair of new, terribly expensive boots because everyone knew that a frog costume had _gold_ highlights, thank you very much, not blue. 

He suspected, not for the first time, that he’d gotten in too deep. But there was nothing to be done about it now: the costume had been made, tailored specially to him, the mask bought, the boots re-laced. More pressingly, Geralt had agreed to attend the ball with him. 

That thought alone was enough to make his heart squeeze and his stomach fill with fluttering butterflies. He couldn’t back out now, not when Geralt had, for the first time, agreed to attend such an event with him as a guest. There were no contracts to complete, no performances to give, no need for a bodyguard: it was just an event that they could enjoy together without the usual trappings of either of their jobs. 

He was looking forward to the opportunity, and he was _terrified._

It was probably for the best that they’d been forced to part ways a few weeks ago. Jaskier had returned to Oxenfurt while Geralt had stuck to the Path. There was a final contract in Mulbrydale that he wanted to see off, and once that was complete he’d head to the city. They would meet again at the ball itself - both in masks. 

It was secretly thrilling, silently romantic. 

Not that Geralt knew that. 

To Jaskier’s shock, Geralt had even insisted on purchasing his own outfit for the event - including a mask. Jaskier had been unsure about that, concerned that both Geralt’s busy schedule and distaste for anything other than the most practical of clothing might hinder him somewhat. It also meant that Jaskier had no idea what to expect. The annual masquerade ball was all for show, really: everyone was already so familiar with the other guests that it was no surprise who everyone else was, masks or no masks. 

But Geralt _would_ be a surprise, at least at first. 

He was also, he had to admit, keen to see Geralt dressed up - wearing something other than mud and a scowl. 

Jaskier finished lacing the first boot and placed it carefully back into its box, then pulling out the second. The rest of his costume lay spread on the bed beside the boots, shimmering greenly. 

This was probably a bad idea. 

He started to unthread the inappropriate blue laces from the second boot. 

_Fuck it,_ he thought. All of his ideas were bad. 

~ 

Jaskier leant against the stone wall, listening to Pris and Valdo bitch at each other. It was all sport, really, nothing else - and their continual bickering was a good distraction from the little ache of anxiety in his chest. 

He fiddled with the lace cuff of his doublet, peering past Valdo’s head to the shrubbery behind him, looking straight through it. The ball had _technically_ started half an hour ago, but the house would still be empty at this time. Most people who had already arrived were lingering in the gardens, just like they were. 

Their host - Asha Viges, an exceptionally rich and long-since-graduated alumni of the college - had ensured that even at this early hour there were staff floating around the guests, offering drinks and tiny, fiddly canapes. A woman wearing a feathered mask drifted past with a few goblets on a tray, and he grabbed one as she did, keen to find a way to occupy his hands. 

Where was he? What if he didn’t even come? 

“Jaskier!” 

He blinked, coming back to himself. “Hrm?” 

“You weren’t even listening!” 

“I was, I was just… thinking.” 

Valdo rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. “I can’t _guess_ what you might have been thinking about,” he said. 

“What I was _saying_ ,” cut in Pris, before Jaskier could shoot a barb back at Valdo, “is that a ridiculously sexy guy just walked through the gates, and you didn’t even notice.” 

“Again,” said Valdo, his voice a low drawl, “I cannot possibly think why that might have been.” 

Jaskier grinned, wolfishly. “A ridiculously sexy guy, you say? Well—” 

“Don’t turn around!” Pris added, quickly. “Don’t make it obvious we’re staring at him, for Melitele’s sake.” 

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “He probably hasn’t even noticed we’re here,” he said, dismissively. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Valdo said with a little pout. 

“And why not?” 

“Because he’s heading this way.” 

_“What?”_

And then there was a hand on his shoulder, strong and firm. 

“And what have you come as?” 

The familiar, gravelly voice, so close to Jaskier’s ear, sent tingles rushing down his spine, making the little hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

“Geralt,” he said, turning around and trying to ignore the unmistakable effect his mere presence was having on his body, “You made— _hrk_.” 

Priscilla had not been incorrect to describe the stranger who had turned out to be Geralt as _ridiculously sexy_. Jaskier wondered why he’d ever doubted Geralt’s ability to dress himself in the first place. He hadn’t chosen anything so traditional as a doublet, but was instead wearing a longer, dark robe, tied at the waist with a wide, brocade sash in black and grey with hints of orange so light it was nearly golden. 

The rolled-up sleeves showed off his forearms - a part of him that Jaskier had always rather secretly admired - and he’d left the top three or four sparkling metal clasps undone, displaying the top of his broad chest. His medallion rested against the skin in a way that bordered on obscene. 

His hair - his unmistakably white hair - was pulled back into a ponytail tied with a black ribbon, and his nape and the back of his head had been shaved short. Jaskier had to resist the urge to touch the shorn hair there, to feel it beneath his fingers. 

And the mask… Jaskier should have been able to predict the only thing that Geralt could have chosen to dress as. A wolf. The half-mask looked like it had been made from treated leather, moulded to the shape of his face with two high, pointed ears. The black leather had been painted in whites and greys, and through the eyeholes Geralt’s own yellow eyes peered out at him, his pupils wide. 

Jaskier _wanted_ to say something complimentary about Geralt’s costume, about the way the robe hugged his chest, the way the mask framed his already angled face. 

What he _actually_ said was - “Oh _my_ … the big bad wolf, come to gobble me up” - and immediately wished he’d kept his fucking mouth shut. 

Geralt tilted his head, a cocky smile on his face. 

“I’m a frog,” Jaskier continued in a rush, trying to move the conversation onwards. “Obviously.” 

“Hmm.” 

Jaskier swept a hand towards his friends, who were looking at him expectantly. 

“Priscilla,” he said, “Valdo: this is Geralt.” 

Geralted nodded at them in greeting, and Jaskier did not miss the overly interested expressions on their faces. 

“So _this_ is Geralt,” said Valdo, stepping forward, hand outstretched. “I’ve heard so much.” 

Geralt raised his eyebrows. “Valdo?” He said, with apparent surprise. “Valdo Marx?” 

Valdo looked pleased. “The very same.” 

Geralt shot a quick look at Jaskier. _Fuck_. He tried to convey “keep your bloody mouth shut” through expression alone, hampered somewhat by the mask. It appeared to work, as Geralt took Valdo’s hand and shook it. 

“It’s good to finally put a face to a name,” he said, Jaskier sagging with relief next to him. 

Valdo looked even _more_ pleased. Both of them, in fact, were watching Geralt with a close curiosity - something that Jaskier recognised as extending beyond mere creative appraisal. He knew immediately that they were going to ask as many awkward questions as possible… unless he could get Geralt away quick enough. 

“ _Anyway_ ,” Jaskier extended his arm, and Geralt took it, much to his surprise. “Let me show you around before we head in.” He nodded at Pris and Valdo. “We’ll see you later, mhmm?” 

They both looked put out, but he happily ignored their expressions and grumbles of annoyance, instead focusing on the feeling of Geralt’s arm beneath his hand as he maneuvered him towards the rest of the grounds. 

~ 

Geralt was being led through the spacious gardens, his arm looped around Jaskier’s. Jaskier’s body was pressed close beside him, their shoulders brushing, their hands maddening inches from each other. 

_Fuck_. Perhaps agreeing to come had been a bad idea. 

Jaskier was chatting away about the grounds and the generousness of their host, pointing out rare flowers or precisely sculpted topiary. Geralt felt a little lost in it all - this finery was Jaskier’s territory, not his. 

He peered at Jaskier, confident that his mask would hide his expression. 

A frog. It was an unusual costume even for Jaskier, who’s fashion whims Geralt had given up on trying to understand _years_ ago. 

It was nothing to do, he was sure, with the _incident_ six months ago. 

He’d been trying not to think about it. Trying and failing, of course - especially as Jaskier kept bringing it up. At least he’d managed to convince Jaskier that he hadn’t been about to kiss the damn thing. 

Jaskier had quickly moved him away from the couple he'd been chatting to - his friends, Geralt presumed. He couldn't help but wonder why. Their relationship, by whatever metric either of them defined it, was no secret: Jaskier’s most recent success was based on it, after all. In fact, Jaskier seemed to revel in showing him off, when he could get away with it. So why now the sudden seclusion? 

They walked arm in arm past a giggling couple, who ceased their chattering to peer at them as they passed. The masks were for show, really: Jaskier was well known here, and it wouldn't be difficult to work out who the broad, white haired man with him was - especially not considering his choice of mask. 

The frog and the wolf. They did make an intriguing pair, he had to admit. 

And then a thought struck him. The frog incident - the little personal embarrassment - made a good story. It was short, retellable, and came with an inbuilt punchline. The Great White Wolf thinks his bardic companion has been transformed into a frog. He was amazed, now he considered it, that he hadn't heard it set to music. 

But just because there wasn't a song it didn't mean the story hadn't spread. Jaskier was an intolerable gossip. By now, the whole Academy could know about it. 

Perhaps that was the reasoning behind the costume. It was a joke. A joke at their expense: at _Geralt’s_ expense. — 

Usually, Geralt didn't care for the opinions of others. He was a witcher, for fuck's sake. He was the Butcher of Blaviken. He knew that he was subject to gossip and rumour, that wherever he went he was followed by whispers: and none of them good. 

But the idea that it was _Jaskier_ whispering about him… it was worse, somehow. Almost like a betrayal. 

He tried to shove those feelings down. There was no reason for him to suspect the worst from Jaskier, who had always been kind to him - protective, almost. It was just as likely that he'd chosen the costume to tease Geralt's mistake, or that he'd simply forgotten about the whole thing and had decided to dress as a frog for no other reason than he thought it was a good outfit. 

And it _was_ a good outfit. The short, puffy breeches and the fitted doublet cinched at his waist, emphasising the true broadness of his shoulders that he so often hid. Beneath the breeches he wore light green tights which showed off the shape of his legs, and boots were, Geralt thought, wildly impractical, but _did_ draw attention to the natural swagger of his hips. 

And the colour - all greens and golds - made Jaskier’s blue eyes pop. Beneath the mask he'd even circled his eyes with a shimmering dark green eyeshadow, which only emphasised them further, and in the pink evening light he almost had a fae quality to him. 

Geralt was aware that he was staring, and even the mask that hid most of his expression couldn't disguise that. He quickly looked away, feigning interest in a topiary that Jaskier _insisted_ had been shaped into some kind of wild beast, although what it was supposed to be Geralt couldn’t tell. 

Jaskier finally led Geralt inside, stopping to find his friends again, before they headed towards the hall where the food was being served. Surrounded by people, making their way to their seats took a small age, as every few moments Jaskier would be accosted by another friend or colleague or even, in a few cases, _fans_ , stopping to chat. It was clear that while the sudden appearance of a witcher - _Jaskier’s witcher_ , he heard people say - was interesting, it wasn’t quite as interesting as catching up with the bard who had made him famous. 

Geralt had become self-consciously used to eyes being on him in these sorts of settings, aware that he rather stuck out. But this was different. People would greet him, eyebrows raised, and then generally ignore him, keen to talk to Jaskier instead. 

Jaskier kept his hand wrapped steadfastly around Geralt’s arm the whole time, even when deep in a five minute long conversation about the latest Academy drama. He moved on from each conversation with a grace Geralt wasn’t used to seeing from him, all poise and discretion. 

It made Geralt feel a little smug about it. No matter who came to occupy Jaskier’s time, it was _him_ that he was attached to - him that he kept by his side, and him that he pushed into the seat next to him when they finally broke through the crush of people to their seats. 

The food was, of course, divine. But the meal was clearly not the draw of the event, and the three full courses came and went quickly, the hall filled with the sound of excited chattering. 

He was aware that Jaskier was keeping one eye on him the whole time - always pressed against his shoulder, always shooting glances at him. He kept coming back to him, even when there were dozens of artists and poets and, by all accounts, _very important people_ all vying for his time and attention. 

Finally, the meal was over, and the woman that Geralt assumed was the host of the event wearing a long red dress and watching mask announced the beginning of the _true_ festivities. 

And then there was music - a full band appearing on the raised stage to the far side of the room - and suddenly seats were scraping as people rose, squeezing around tables, ready to dance. 

Almost immediately a woman approached their table wearing a dazzling golden gown and a beaked mask. 

“Ala!” Jaskier greeted her, rising from his seat. “How are you, my dear?” 

“Well, Jaskier, quite well,” she said, eyes flashing. “But I’d be even better if you’d join me for a dance?” 

Jaskier grinned, and Geralt prepared himself for a long night of having to entertain himself. But instead of rushing off with the woman - Ala - Jaskier turned to Geralt instead. 

“Do you mind? She _did_ ask first, after all.” 

Geralt blinked. He didn’t _really_ want to be left alone all evening, but he knew how much Jaskier loved this sort of thing. 

“Of course not,” he said, “Go dance.” 

Jaskier gave his arm a quick squeeze, then grabbed Ala’s hand, and together they swayed towards the dance floor. 

Geralt watched as Jaskier danced with Ala, and then as soon as the song ended grabbed a man - a friend, it must have been, from the way they laughed at each other - and danced with _him_ next. On the road, Jaskier seemed to have two left feet, always tripping over roots, furrows in the road, his own blasted shoes. But on the dance floor, dressed in shining fabric and surrounded by his peers, he _glided_. Geralt wondered when Jaskier - the man who had once twisted his ankle by getting it tangled in the strap of his own lute - had suddenly become so graceful. 

Even across the room, even with masks on, Geralt could see the twinkle in his eye as he spun across the floor, his constant laughter. His feet moved in rhythm, for once, perfectly placed between the feet of whoever his partner was next. 

The person he was dancing with now - a pretty woman with a cascade of black hair spilling from the back of her antlered mask - had one hand draped casually over Jaskier’s shoulder, resting there with ease. One of Jaskier’s hands gripped at her waist as he led her across the floor, and Geralt could see the way his fingers pressed into the soft fabric of her dark green dress. 

Something unpleasant twisted in his gut. He watched as Jaskier and his friend danced, their movements perfectly mirrored, their bodies moving together like they’d been made for it - made for each other. 

Geralt _knew_ that Jaskier was flighty. He _knew_ that he had friends and lovers across the continent - usually one and the same. But knowing it didn’t make it feel any better when he watched Jaskier spin a partner in a perfect circle, or press his hands to their waist - to their hips. 

He wanted to be the one beneath those deft, skilled hands. It was a traitorous thought - one that he’d been trying to ignore for some time. Jaskier’s feelings towards him were, he was sure, no more than friendly. He called him his “best friend” and occasionally his muse, if the mood struck. Geralt didn’t want to ruin the tenuous promise of friendship with his unwanted desires. 

The song ended, and instead of wrapping his arms around the next nearest person, Jaskier instead turned to see Geralt, still perched at his seat on the edge of the crowd. He waved a hasty hand at the woman he’d been dancing with, then made his way across the floor. He moved slowly - waylaid by friends and, Geralt assumed, admirers, asking him to dance. 

He turned them all away. 

Jaskier virtually fell into the seat next to Geralt, his neck flushed from dancing. Before Geralt could say anything, he’d pulled Geralt’s nearly full goblet of wine from his unsuspecting hand and took a huge drink of the sweet red stuff with a little noise of satisfaction that made heat pool in Geralt’s stomach. 

“Mm,” he said, passing the goblet back like nothing had happened, “That’s good.” 

Geralt peered down at the wine. “Hmm.” 

“Sorry to have left you like that,” Jaskier continued, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know how it is.” 

Geralt wasn’t sure he _did_ know how it was - he’d never been half as popular as Jaskier at this sort of event. 

“You could have carried on,” said Geralt, “You looked like you were enjoying yourself.” 

“And what sort of friend would I be if I left you here all alone after dragging you along?” 

“You didn’t _drag_ me,” Geralt said, drinking from the goblet, carefully avoiding the spot where Jaskier’s lips had been. “And I don’t need to be looked after.” 

“I’m not _looking after_ you,” Jaskier huffed. “I want to spend time with you. Is that so shocking? Unless I can convince you to, you know…” 

He titled his head towards the packed dance floor, eyes sparkling. 

“I don’t dance.” 

“You _don’t_ dance or you _can’t_ dance? Quite different things.” 

“I—” 

“Jaskier!” 

They turned as one to see a woman approaching - tall and slim wearing a shocking red gown and a striking half mask covered in red and gold feathers. Geralt recognised her as the host who had spoken earlier. She was dressed as a phoenix, Geralt assumed, judging by the plumage and the fiery colours. 

Jaskier stood in a swift movement, and the woman pulled him into a crushing hug. 

“Asha,” he said, “I was wondering where you’d gone. It’s amazing, as always.” 

She grinned immodestly. “Thank you, darling. You know how I like to go all out for these things... now, Jaskier, I _must_ admit I’ve rather nefarious purposes coming to greet you.” 

“Is that so?” 

“I was _rather_ hoping you’d introduce me to your… friend. I have to say…” she peered behind Jaskier at Geralt, appraising him. “I hadn’t realised you’d be bringing your _witcher_ with you.” 

“Yes, well,” Jaskier turned to look at him, and his expression was soft. “I thought it was about time, you know?” 

Geralt rose, feeling it was expected of him, and approached the woman. 

“Asha, this is Geralt,” said Jaskier, placing a light hand to Geralt’s lower back, guiding him forwards. “Geralt, this is Asha Viges, our gracious and beautiful host.” 

“It’s a _pleasure_ to meet you,” drawled Asha, “After hearing so much about you and your adventures. And so aptly dressed, too. A wolf? Very appropriate.” 

Geralt made a non-commital noise. “Better than a frog.” 

He said it as a kind of cover - a vague attempt to be let into the shared joke that he was sure they were giggling about behind their hands. But Asha burst into ringing peals of laughter, taken by surprise. 

“Oh! Oh, Jaskier, I _do_ like him.” She turned to Geralt, resting a hand on her hip. “ _Honestly_ ,” she said, “he brings us all these amazing stories about terrible creatures, and turns up to the event of the year dressed as a _frog_. A frog!” 

She gestured back to the crowd, where Geralt could see a number of masks depicting somewhat more stylish interpretations of the monsters he fought: leshens, griffins, a couple of werewolves. There were more mingling about, death dressed up in bright colours and sequins. 

“Hmm.” 

Jaskier was more diplomatic. “Surely you can agree,” he said, “that in a room full of fantastic beasts, the humble frog is far more interesting and unique?” 

“ _And_ far more dull,” said Asha, with a toothy smile. “But when have you ever been predictable, my dear? Anyway…” she turned to Geralt with a small nod, “It’s marvellous to finally meet Jaskier’s beloved witcher. I hope we can talk again later, Geralt. You’ll have to tell me more about your adventures.” 

She swept away, the red gown swishing across the marble. Geralt turned to look at Jaskier, and could tell from what little of his face was on show that he was blushing. Even contrasting against the green of the mask, it wasn’t unpleasant. 

It was odd, Geralt thought, that even their host had thought Jaskier’s chosen costume was a little strange. Surely it should have been an obvious joke, a shared story? 

And then he realised. 

“You didn’t tell anyone.” 

Jaskier blinked, drifting back from whatever thought he was occupying. “Tell them what?” 

“About…” Geralt gestured at Jaskier’s outfit, at the mask. He swallowed. “The frog.” 

Jaskier frowned, then his eyes suddenly widened. “Oh!” he gasped, “Oh, no, Geralt. Of course not. Why would I have?” 

Geralt shrugged, feeling suddenly guilty. “I thought, with all this…” 

He looked again at Jaskier’s outfit, hoping he would understand what he meant. 

“You thought this was, what, some sort of _joke_ , Geralt? That we were laughing at you?” 

Geralt didn’t say anything - didn’t want to admit that Jaskier was right. Jaskier took a step closer, his head tilted to one side. 

“No, Geralt. No.” He licked his lips, the movement quick and sharp. “ _All this_ … is for your benefit alone.” 

“...Oh.” 

“Anyway,” Jaskier chatted on, cutting off whatever next question had been on Geralt’s lips, “Come, I want to dance. I’m not getting you all the way to a ball and then having you refuse to dance with me.” 

“But—” 

But Jaskier had already grabbed him by the wrist, was already tugging him towards the floor packed with twirling couples. Geralt didn’t dance. Geralt fought, and Geralt parried, but he did _not_ dance. He’d make Jaskier look a fool - a fighter and an artist, trapped somewhere between a battle and a waltz. 

He didn’t dance, and yet he found himself with one hand pressed to Jaskier’s waist and the other gripping his hand in the very middle of the floor. 

“I’ll lead, shall I?” Said Jaskier, with a wink. 

The music changed tempo to something slower, much to Geralt’s relief, and Jaskier began to guide him around the floor, keeping his footwork - which had been far more complicated with his other partners - slow and simple. Pressed this close to him, Geralt could smell the tumultuous scent that he’d come to associate with his bard - honey, and flowers, and the slightest hint of chamomile. Beneath that was something hot, something spicy, that Geralt was trying not to focus on too much. 

He thought, instead, back to the frog. To the sweet relief that Jaskier hadn’t made him the centre of some grand joke. _All for your benefit_. He swallowed, thickly. 

“I can’t believe you bought this costume just because of… of _that_ ,” said Geralt, aware of Jaskier’s pulse beating in his fingertips, pressed into the back of his hand. 

Jaskier grinned. “Well,” he said, “You see, it’s all very tragic.” 

“How so?” 

Jaskier did a little sidestep and spun them both, Geralt struggling to keep up without standing on his toes. 

“I find myself quite transformed,” he said, catching Geralt’s gaze with a blush. “Unfortunately befroggled.” 

Geralt’s throat felt tight, his hands too warm. “You make a fine frog,” he said, finally. 

The smile that split Jaskier’s face was warm and real. 

“Thank you,” he said. “You know,” spin - turn - feet, dancing, “I realised, quite some time after you told me…” Jaskier broke Geralt’s gaze, looking instead at their hands, “what it was I’d caught you doing.” 

“You make it sound like I was doing something indecent.” 

“Maybe I’m wrong!” Jaskier said, in a tone that implied he certainly didn’t think he was wrong at all, “but I’m sure - I was sure then, and I’m _still_ sure now - that you were about to kiss that little bastard frog thief. Am I right?” 

Geralt was pleased that Jaskier wasn’t gifted with the same heightened senses that he was, so he couldn’t hear the way his heart had picked up. 

“I asked myself - _what would Jaskier do?_ ” He said, quietly. 

Jaskier laughed. “And your conclusion was that I’d kiss a frog? I’d be offended,” he said, “if that wasn’t so accurate. If I thought _you’d_ been turned into a frog it’s probably the first thing I’d do. It’s just…” They continued to dance, but Jaskier’s heart was thundering now, and Geralt could hear it too, nearly drowned out by the music and crowd, “I was under the impression that _love_ was a prerequisite for the whole _kissing a frog_ scenario.” 

Geralt’s voice caught in his throat, his feet stumbling. 

“Or not,” said Jaskier, quickly. 

“I knew what you’d say,” Geralt muttered, “if a kiss _had_ been the thing to break it. You’d have been horribly offended, and told me that friendship is a kind of love.” 

He meant it as a joke - a quick aside, a way to claw back some plausible deniability from the whole thing if it turned out that he’d read the signs entirely wrong and Jaskier’s affections were nothing more than friendly. It was _true_ \- it was exactly how he’d justified the aborted kiss to himself at the time. What did it matter, now, after six months of quiet rumination, that it had never been friendship that spurred him into it at all? 

But Jaskier - instead of laughing, or teasing, or biting back with a quip - froze. The music played on, couples dancing around them, but Jaskier’s feet had stilled and his grip loosened and then - hands slack - his arms had dropped back to his side and the dance, such that it was, was over. 

“Ah,” he said, head low, expression muted by the mask, “I’ve just… I’ve just realised. There’s… a thing. I’ve got to—” 

“ _Jaskier_ —” 

“I’ve got to go.” 

He slid from Geralt’s hands like water, turning and snaking through the other dancers, away from him, across to the other side of the room and through an arched doorway and then - finally - out of sight. 

_Fuck_. 

It was hot, suddenly, and loud. Too loud, too close, too bright. Too many people pressing in, too many smells, too much of everything. 

He had to get out. 

~ 

_“Friendship is a kind of love.”_

It hurt. It hurt like hell, like a knife in his chest. Jaskier wasn’t sure where he was going, simply striding down the long, empty corridor, willing his heart to stop thumping in his ears. 

He’d been in Asha’s home dozens of times, and ducked into a low alcove that he’d spent a rather memorable night in a few years back with a very handsome poet. It was empty, now, with cobwebs clinging resolutely to the corners, but at least it was out of the way. No one would find him in here. 

He wanted - gods, he wanted to take everything back. He shouldn’t have probed and prodded Geralt like he did, he shouldn’t have asked him to dance. He shouldn’t have worn this _stupid_ costume and he shouldn’t have invited Geralt to the ball at all. 

And, most importantly, his biggest mistake of all. He shouldn’t have fallen in love with him. 

He wasn’t sure, really, how he could have prevented it. 

Gods, what a mess. What a fucking mess. And Geralt, of course, thought they were just having a perfectly reasonable and lovely conversation about - about fucking _frogs_ \- until Jaskier had panicked and fled, leaving him in a room full of strangers. 

He leant against the slightly dusty wall, his head in his hands. He didn’t even take the mask off - he didn’t want to have to think about it, just one in a series of poor choices. He’d give himself a few minutes to gather himself, to push down all these nasty little feelings and horrible, looming sense of rejection, until he had time to properly wallow in them. Tomorrow, or the day after, when Geralt had inevitably set off once more, he could take a full week to be miserable. Right now, he needed to pull himself together and go and find his friend - even if he would only ever _be_ his friend. 

Leaving him out there amongst students and artists was cruel, even for someone who’d just broken his heart. 

He took a few, deep breaths, feeling the cold stone wall against his back. 

When Jaskier made his way back into the ballroom, a convincing smile plastered across his face, he noticed that Geralt appeared to have vanished, too. 

He wasn’t keen to ask around for the witcher, aware that it would raise suspicions - even _more_ suspicions, considering it was becoming clear that several of the other attendees were under the impression that there was something going on between them. He didn’t need to add any fuel to _that_ fire, under the circumstances. 

He’d have to think like Geralt. It was loud and crowded in the ballroom - and the air was spiced with the smell of food and wine and dozens of mingling perfumes. Geralt was probably overwhelmed by the barrage on his senses. That meant he would have slipped outside. 

But in order to leave through the wide doors that led to the gardens, he would have had to sneak past Jaskier’s hiding place, and even in his state of distress he would have recognised Geralt’s tell-tale stomp. 

Jaskier peered around the room, and then his eyes fell on the doors leading to the balcony at the far end. Drapes had been pulled across them - Asha had learnt from experience that easily accessible balconies were often a recipe for disaster when free wine was involved - but the one at the very far end had been twitched aside, the heavy red fabric bunched against the door. 

He felt a little smug. Who needed witcher senses? 

~ 

Geralt leant against the balcony, feeling the cool air on his face. It was better out here, away from the press of the crowd, the lights and the music. The velvet curtains that had been pulled across the balcony doors meant that out here, at least, he wouldn’t be bothered by anyone: no one would be watching him with those looks somewhere between horror and curiosity. 

He stared out across the expansive gardens, the fountains and flowerbeds. He should go back inside and look for Jaskier, try to pull it back - but he had no idea where he’d escaped to, or who he was with. 

He realised, as soon as he’d said it, what a stupid mistake he’d made. Telling Jaskier his rationale about friendship and love, as if that would mean anything. As if he could run away from it. As soon as the words had left his mouth, Jaskier’s mood had soured, fear and sadness and hurt eeking from his pores in tart, citrus scents. 

He’d lied - or twisted the truth - convinced that Jaskier wouldn’t reciprocate his feelings. And he’d been wrong. He’d known how wrong he was from the fall of Jaskier’s mouth, the droop of his shoulders, the way his hands - once clinging so sturdily to Geralt - slumped down to his sides. 

Jaskier could have gone off to his friends - his _true_ friends - to lament the perceived rejection. And, gods: it _wasn’t_ perceived. Geralt _had_ rejected him, no matter how he looked at it. 

The heavy balcony doors swung open, and Geralt turned, an excuse for his absence from the festivities already at his lips. 

Jaskier stood silhouetted in the doorway. He stopped there for a second before stepping onto the balcony, shutting the heavy doors behind him. He made his way to the railing, placing his hands on the stone and peering out across the gardens. 

He was still wearing the mask. 

Geralt could hear his heart thundering, that unpleasant smell of fear and sadness still on him. He wondered if Jaskier knew he could read him so well. 

“You’re still wearing it,” he said. 

“What?” Jaskier frowned down at the rose bushes below the balcony. 

“The mask. You’re still…” he hesitated, falling on the word that Jaskier had used earlier. “Befroggled.” 

Jaskier smiled, the mask shifting on his face as he did. 

“It would appear that way,” he said. “Cursed to be a frog forever. How sad.” Jaskier chuckled, but there was no life to the sound. “Sorry for leaving you back there,” he said, still looking out at the gardens. “I just… had something to take care of.” 

“It’s fine.” 

“Geralt, look—” 

“It’s fine, really.” 

“It’s not fine! The whole… the frog _thing_. I shouldn’t have teased you about it. I shouldn’t have put on this whole fucking _show_. I just kept thinking about it… kept thinking about how I was so _sure_ I’d caught you about to kiss that fucking frog, and _then_ I realised you thought it was _me_ and then I just - I thought that maybe - but then you said about _friendship_ , and gods it’s all rather stupid anyway because of _course_ the only time you would _ever_ fathom kissing me is if I was a fucking frog, like one of your contracts you need to fix, so—” 

Geralt cut him off. “I can try.” 

Jaskier hesitated. “Try what?” 

“To fix it.” 

“Geralt…” Jaskier looked away. His fingers twitched against the stone. 

Geralt stepped forwards, slowly, each movement deliberate. He only wanted this if Jaskier wanted it, too. He reached out a hand till their fingertips were touching, and Jaskier finally looked up at him, his lips a tight line. Still moving slowly, not breaking Jaskier’s gaze, Geralt placed his hand gently on the side of his face, this thumb barely brushing the corner of his lip. Jaskier sighed and leaned into the touch, his eyelids lowering. 

“Geralt,” he said again, barely more than a whisper. “You don’t have to—” 

“I _want_ to.” 

“But you don’t—” 

“ _Jaskier._ ” 

He kissed him gently - slowly, leaving his hand resting on his jaw, tilting his head. Jaskier’s lips were soft beneath his own, and they parted just a fraction, seeking more, when Geralt pulled away. 

There was a flush on Jaskier’s neck, his ears pink. 

“I’m an idiot,” Geralt muttered, unwilling to move further away from Jaskier’s lips any more than he needed to. 

Jaskier huffed out a hot laugh against Geralt’s mouth. “I agree.” 

Geralt let his gaze drift over Jaskier’s face, the painted green eyes beneath the flashy mask. 

“I don’t think it worked,” said Jaskier, eyes sparkling. “You’ll have to try again.” 

This time, there was no hesitation. Geralt surged forwards, crashing his lips against Jaskier's. Jaskier let out a short, sharp gasp of surprise against his lips before kissing him back with equal enthusiasm, his hands wrapped tight around his waist, tugging him closer. 

Jaskier opened his mouth beneath Geralt’s movements, letting him in, the tip of his tongue grazing Geralt’s bottom lip. If Geralt had found himself distracted by Jaskier’s _smell_ , his _taste_ was something utterly incomprehensible - exploding on his own tongue, urging him to seek out more. 

The hand that had rested on Jaskier’s jaw snaked up to his nape, and then tangled in his hair. Geralt gave a little tug and Jaskier made a quiet noise that lit a fire in Geralt’s belly. He pressed tighter, their lips dancing, their masks crashing gracelessly together. His hand, carding through Jaskier’s shaggy hair, caught on something - tangled in something silky - and he tugged at it impatiently, keen to be able to touch Jaskier unimpeded. 

The silky something gave way beneath his hands. The frog mask - which had moments ago been tied with thick silk ribbons at the back of Jaskier’s head - fell from his face. Before either of them realised what had happened, it clattered to the stone railing then tumbled into the dark garden below. 

Jaskier laughed. “Bollocks.” And then - with a sudden gasp - he spun back around. “It worked!” 

“What?” 

“You turned me back!” 

Geralt looked at him - a flush playing on his cheekbones, the green powder circling his eyes making him look like a dazzling racoon. The colour made his eyes look even more blue, even out here in the low evening light. 

“So I did.” 

“I suppose I should return the favour.” 

Geralt raised his eyebrows. “What?” 

“Well you can’t stay as a wolf all evening, can you?” 

Jaskier surged forwards, reaching out and wrapping his hands around Geralt’s neck. As he kissed him again, Geralt felt his deft fingers fiddling at the back of his head, and soon his own wolfish mask was being pulled away. 

When Jaskier lent back, the mask dangling between his fingers, he had a cheeky grin on his face. 

“There,” he said, softly, handing the mask back to Geralt. “Much better.” 

Geralt placed the mask gently on the stone balcony rail, then peered into the darkness below. 

“Sorry about your mask.” 

Jaskier shrugged. “It’s alright,” he said, “It’s just a mask.” 

“We could go and get it.” 

“What, go down there and root around in the bushes looking for it? Come, Geralt, there’s half a dozen much more interesting things I can think of doing tonight…” 

“Or…” Geralt leaned back, looking at him, “We could go down there, find your mask, and perhaps… explore the gardens some more?” 

“Explore the—” It took Jaskier a few moments to catch up. “Oh. _Oh_. Well, when you put it that way…” 

Geralt had a sudden thought. “Wait here,” he said, finally releasing Jaskier. 

“What are you—” 

“Just… wait.” 

“And how do I know you’re not going to bugger off and leave me out here, hmm?” 

Geralt stepped forwards and kissed him again - quick and intense. As he pulled away, he caught Jaskier’s bottom lip between his teeth, eliciting a soft, half-suppressed moan. 

“That’s how.” 

And then he snuck through the door, leaving Jaskier breathless on the balcony. 

~ 

Jaskier leant against the cool stone railing, feeling the spring breeze ruffle through his hair. His lips were tingling. His whole body, in fact, was tingling - all energy and adrenaline. _Gods_ , but kissing Geralt was everything he’d imagined and more. 

He wondered what Geralt’s plan was, where he’d vanished to now. He was about to go and investigate when the door swung open and the man himself reappeared, darting through the small opening. 

He was _smiling_. Geralt _never_ smiled. And he was carrying a bottle of wine, gripped tightly in one hand. 

“Geralt!” He gasped, as the door quietly shut behind him, “Where did you get that?” 

Geralt passed him the bottle, grinning. “People very rarely say _no_ to a Witcher. Coming?” 

He hoicked one leg over the balcony as Jaskier watched on in horror, then let himself drop onto the thick grass below. Jaskier rushed over, peering down at him. 

“You’re supposed to be the sensible one!” He hissed. 

Geralt shrugged. “Throw down the wine.” 

Jaskier bit back the urge to tell Geralt to fuck off, then dropped the bottle down to him with a wince. Geralt caught it - of course - and placed it down on the grass next to him, carefully. 

“Now you.” 

“Oh, no, no… I am _not_ throwing myself down there. We’re not all witchers, you know! Some of us are—” 

“Frogs?” 

Jaskier pouted. 

“I was going to say _fragile_.” 

“I’ll catch you.” 

Jaskier considered this. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time Geralt had caught him - either tumbling off whatever cliff face they were supposed to be traversing or leaping from a lover’s window. But it _would_ be the first time Geralt was the one encouraging him to jump. 

He huffed a little, smoothing down his doublet, then with nowhere near as much grace as Geralt had managed he clambered over the balcony, swinging his legs around and clinging to the balustrade, his back to the garden. 

“Ready?” He called, trying to catch Geralt in his eye over his shoulder. 

“Ready.” 

_Ah, fuck_. 

He let himself drop. 

There was just the brief moment of rushing air - the ballroom was only one floor up, after all - and then Geralt caught him, barely even making a sound as he did. Jaskier wrapped his arms instinctively around Geralt’s neck as he wobbled in his arms, and once he was sure Geralt wasn’t going to drop him he pressed a quick, lingering kiss to his lips. 

“I think,” he said, letting his legs swing from Geralt’s arm, “that I might be able to get used to that.” 

Geralt lowered him down, Jaskier feeling hesitant to let go, then they rummaged in the rose bushes for a while, searching for the dropped mask. It was Geralt who found it - aided by his keener eyesight - and Jaskier tied it haphazardly around his neck in lieu of carrying it. This way, he had one hand for the bottle, and the other to loop around Geralt’s arm. 

As they picked their way across the vast, silent grounds he considered sneaking his grip lower and threading his fingers between Geralt’s, but such a soft, affectionate gesture somehow felt more indecent than all the kissing in the world - more salacious than whatever plans he had for Geralt in the quieter corners of the gardens. 

The gardens really were enormous, and soon the noise of the party was just a faraway hum as they picked their way across the grass, between enormous shrubs and bushes. In the far corner of the grounds, tucked away, was a wide, shallow pond that had been dug into the perfect lawn. 

Jaskier peered inside, watching the fat, shining fish within it swimming in lazy circles. A hand snaked its way around his waist and he turned, slowly, sinking into the touch as he did. 

Geralt kissed him languidly, pulling him close, his hands placed with just the right amount of pressure on his hips. Out here, without the sound of the party or the chatter of his friends, Jaskier could melt into it, could truly believe that there was nothing in the world aside from him and Geralt and this long, perfect moment. 

They sank down to the ground next to the water, and soon Geralt had pulled the cork from the wine. Jaskier stretched his legs out on the grass, enjoying the feeling of Geralt's arm around his shoulders. They shared the wine, watching the final rays of the setting sun beyond the walls of the garden. 

It wasn't long before Geralt's lips had made their way back to Jaskier's, and wine now utterly abandoned, Jaskier had let himself topple backwards onto the grass, Geralt atop him, his knees either side of his hips. 

Geralt’s attentions drifted away from Jaskier’s lips and towards his neck, stopping once to lightly suck at the skin there. Jaskier bucked his hips beneath him, grinding his crotch against Geralt's leg, and he could hear Geralt’s low chuckle - the sound sending tingles shooting down his spine. It quickly became clear that the high collar of Jaskier’s doublet was in the way, and Jaskier reached up, hands drifting up Geralt’s chest, to get at the buttons there. 

“Can I…?” Geralt said, and Jaskier nodded, breathlessly, as Geralt began to undo the tiny fixtures one at a time. 

He took his bloody time with it, and by the time the doublet was open Jaskier couldn’t stand to wait any longer. He struggled out of the thick, velvety fabric and tossed the garment aside - sod the cost - then wrapped his arms around Geralt’s waist, pulling him down on top of him again. 

Geralt’s hand rested on Jaskier’s hip, then slid up, slipping beneath the thin fabric of Jaskier’s undershirt, rising up his chest. Jaskier let out a sigh at the touch that he’d been craving for so long, arching his back, and soon the chemise was tossed aside too. 

He sat up, forcing Geralt back. 

“Now this isn’t at all fair,” he said, reaching out. “Let’s see…” 

He tugged at the wide sash still tied about Geralt’s waist, the decorative knot coming away easily beneath his fingers. Next came the robe itself - secured with delicate metal clasps which he took great pleasure in undoing as slowly as he could. 

The robe dropped away, revealing a light grey cotton undershirt beneath. Without the thick fabric in the way, Jaskier could feel the planes of Geralt’s chest - the contours of his muscles. 

Perched in Geralt’s lap, he pressed his lips to his jaw, his neck, his collarbone, inhaling the smell of him. Geralt did likewise, and he could feel his lips and the rough stubble of his beard dragging slowly along his skin. He shuddered, and found himself being lowered back down as Geralt’s lips traced lower - down his chest, lightly kissing at his nipple, then towards his hips. 

Jaskier bit down on his lip as Geralt pressed a hot kiss to the divot of his hip bone, feeling his cock filling, desperate for more. He moaned - the sound totally out of his control - and Geralt repeated the movement with a hum, his face maddeningly close to Jaskier's prick. 

And Jaskier had a thought - a realisation. 

“Hold on…” Jaskier mumbled, his skin alight. “...wait.” 

Geralt stopped, his lips pressed to Jaskier’s hip. “What’s wrong?” 

He couldn’t suppress a sharp laugh. “Nothing’s wrong. This is wonderful, but… Look, Geralt. I’m not going to fuck you next to this pond in the garden of a very dear friend.” 

Geralt breathed against his skin, kissing the little dip of his hip, before moving up to better look at him. 

“Oh?” 

“I’m into outdoor pursuits as much as the next person,” Jaskier said, running a hand up and down Geralt’s back, suspecting that Geralt was _extremely_ into outdoor pursuits, “but… Geralt, you must understand.” He sat up, and Geralt leant back. “The things I have planned for you require significantly more preparation, a bed, ideally a four-poster, at least three different kinds of oils and…” he watched Geralt’s expression, “ _maybe_ a satin sash. Or silk, I’m not picky.” 

"It sounds like you’ve put a lot of thought into this." 

"Have you not?" 

Geralt appeared to be considering this, his gaze dragging slowly down Jaskier’s naked torso. 

"Hmm." 

"I'll take that as a _yes_ , shall I?" 

"You want it to be… special?" Geralt teased. 

Jaskier huffed, rolling his eyes. "You make me sound like some simpering romantic." 

"Are you not?" 

Jaskier frowned. "Well. Yes, I _am_ , obviously. But very specifically in this case I want it to be…" 

"Special?" 

"Mind-blowing. I'm going to give you the best orgasm you've ever had. You're going to struggle to walk the next day. And unfortunately that means _not_ fucking you next to this pond.” He paused, thinking. “Not _tonight_ , at any rate.” 

Geralt's eyes were wide and dark, and Jaskier could feel his cock eagerly pressing into his leg. It was hard not to give into him - to give into the broiling, bubbling feeling in his chest and his own equally keen prick - as Geralt nuzzled at the soft spot where his neck met his shoulder. 

“But… I’ve rooms in the city,” he said, words coming in gasps. 

Geralt’s tongue pressed against his pulse point, his teeth scraping across his skin. “With a four poster bed?” 

Jaskier swallowed. “Yes.” 

“Well, then. Unless you need to say goodbye..?” 

Jaskier grinned, resisting the urge to tug Geralt closer, fuck his plans. 

“No one who wouldn’t understand.” His hands gripped at the grass. “Although they’re all under the impression we’ve been fucking for years.” 

That stopped Geralt, and he moved away from Jaskier’s neck to properly look at him. “Why?” 

Jaskier shrugged. “All I do is talk about you. I’m not surprised.” 

Geralt sat up, now, pulling Jaskier with him. Jaskier drank him in, devouring him with his eyes, knowing that he was _his_ , even if it was just for now. 

As Geralt tugged his robe back on, finding and replacing the grey and gold sash, Jaskier realised, horribly, that he didn’t _want_ it to be just for now. Geralt dressed quickly, but before he could stand, Jaskier reached out, placing a hand against his jaw before kissing him, quick and soft. 

"I don't want you to think this _is_ just fucking _,_ either," he said. "Because it’s not. Not to me, at least.” He paused, suddenly scared. “Because I lo—" 

_CROAK_. 

They both peered down at the sudden intrusion. A fat frog had crawled from the pond and was now sat at their feet, staring up at them. It blinked wetly. 

"Excuse you," said Jaskier, as the little creature began to hop towards them. "We're a little busy." 

It squawked again. 

"Now Geralt," Jaskier pressed his hand to Geralt’s bare chest, "It's important that you remember that _that_ is a frog. And I," he pointed to himself, "am your beloved bard. Don't go snogging it, alright?" 

Geralt hummed again. "Beloved?" 

Jaskier blushed. "Well, ah. That is—" 

Geralt kissed him, silencing his stuttering. 

“It’s fine,” he muttered, still close. “I only kiss frogs that I’m in love with.” 

Jaskier’s stomach flipped. “Is… is that right?” 

“Hmm.” Geralt kissed him again. "What were you going to say," he asked, their lips brushing, "before we were interrupted?" 

Jaskier sighed against the touch. "I love you too. Um. I have for a while, actually, in the spirit of being honest.” 

“Jaskier…” 

“Yes?” 

“I—” 

There was another squawking noise followed quickly by a wet-sounding plop and an undignified squeal from Jaskier as the voyeuristic frog lept from its spot beside them, directly onto Jaskier’s bare chest. 

“Fuck!” He squealed, “Urgh, it’s all _wet!_ ” 

He shot up, swatting at the little thing and sending it flying across the grass. It gave them one lingering look before quickly hopping away, throwing itself back into the pond with a loud _plop_. 

“Fucking _frogs,_ ” Jaskier muttered, wiping at the slimy spot on his chest and pulling his undershirt back on, as if that could protect him. 

Geralt, much to Jaskier’s chagrin, was laughing at him. 

“Well,” huffed Jaskier, “I see how it is.” 

Geralt grabbed the doublet that he’d tossed aside earlier and handed it to him, still smiling. 

“ _Thank you,_ ” Jaskier tugged the doublet over his arms and stood up. “Shall we? Before we’re accosted again…” 

They began to walk towards the wide iron gates, and Geralt slid his hand around Jaskier’s torso. 

“Next year,” he said, his fingers twitching against Jaskier’s waist, “I think it would be safer for everyone if you dressed as a monster.” 

“Next year?” Jaskier tried not to let the hesitation in his voice show. “You’ll come next year?” 

Geralt’s grip squeezed tighter. 

“Of course,” he said. “Like you said....” the hand slid lower, neatly resting atop Jaskier’s arse. “You’re not going to fuck me next to that pond _tonight_.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, you can see more of my weirdness on my tumblr, [here!](https://a-kind-of-merry-war.tumblr.com/)


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